Sorcerer's Shadow

Her smile appeared genuinely concerned. Remarkably, I believe she was indeed concerned. She invited, "Please, enter, and I'll alert Lord Drevolan." She reached out to take my cloak, and I almost surrendered it to her out of habit.

However, my reflexes don't typically respond that way. "Ummm, that's okay," I replied, "I'll hold on to it."

"Of course," she acknowledged, still smiling. "Please, follow me." It struck me that she hadn't addressed me by name, possibly indicating she didn't know how to articulate my patronymic. This suggested Drevolan likely didn't possess extensive information about me. This realization brought a sense of relief.

I stepped into the vastness of Nocturne Castle. I found myself in a spacious hall, adorned with spiraling white marble staircases to my right and left, a prominent arched exit ahead, smaller ones to the sides, balconies above, and a handful of landscape paintings—no psi prints—gracing the walls. Thankfully, not everything was shrouded in black.

One landscape painting caught my eye. It showcased a massive yellow sun in the top right corner, accentuated by delicate white clouds. This scene was familiar, reminiscent of views I'd seen through my grandfather's eyes. It was a classic Terran landscape.

Eldara guided me through the central arched doorway, along a spacious, unadorned yet well-lit hallway, finally arriving at what was unmistakably a lounge. Dominated by a soft yellow hue, the room was replete with plush chairs, sideboards, drink cabinets, and tables. I gave up scouting for potential traps within the first ten seconds. I wished for Opal's presence.

Eldara motioned towards a chair that seemed cozy and provided a clear view of the door. I obliged. She proposed, "Lord Drevolan is expected shortly. May I serve you some wine?"

"Um, yeah," I agreed. "Thank you."

She fetched a bucket of ice with a bottle nestled within, revealing another detail; it was the Terrans who favored chilled wine. She lifted the bottle, grabbed the wine tongs from the embers, skillfully marked the neck, dipped the feather into the ice, and lifted off the top. Her movements were seamless and elegant, akin to a dance. She poured and I savored a sip. The wine was surprisingly exquisite. I examined the bottle, but the label was unfamiliar.

"Is there anything else you need, my lord?" she inquired.

"No, no," I reassured her, "I'm fine. Thank you."

"Until later, then, my lord."

I got to my feet as she made her exit, unsure if it was deemed appropriate. Eldara offered a nod of approval as if it were, but I speculated that even if I had chosen to stay seated, that would have been acceptable too.

Dragonlords don't resort to poison; I indulged in more wine. Shortly after, marked by the rhythmic tap-tap of his footsteps, Lord Drevolan graced the room with his presence.

He stood tall, swathed in black, adorned with touches of silver lace on his shirt and the epaulettes peeking out beneath his flowing cloak. His hand idly rested on the hilt of a longsword. His visage portrayed the typical sharp features of the House of the Dragon. His forehead was broad, and his hair, a dark, straight curtain that draped over his ears. I gave his sword a second glance and realized, despite its sheath, that it was a potent Norsanti blade, its presence causing a faint tremor in my mind.

It suddenly dawned on me: Why was he armed—specifically with a Norsanti blade—within the confines of his own abode to welcome a guest? Was he threatened by me? Was it a Dragonlord tradition to roam their homes armed, or to greet visitors thusly? Or was he contemplating a direct assault? Regardless of one's beliefs about the soul or the Imperions' faith in reincarnation, it was a given that if I were to be struck down by a Norsanti weapon, my fate would be sealed. This realization froze me momentarily until I realized the etiquette of acknowledging his presence since he hadn't initiated an attack yet.

I rose and offered a semi-bow, "Lord Drevolan, I am Viktor Dravos. I'm honored by your willingness to receive me." My words concealed my true sentiments.

He responded with a curt nod and gestured for me to retake my seat. Eldara reappeared to serve him wine as he took the chair opposite me. As she retreated, he offered his gratitude, "Thank you, Lady Eldara." 'Lady' aroused my curiosity about their association. In the meantime, Drevolan evaluated me as one would a precious gem. His gaze remained fixed on me as he drank. I mirrored his actions. His skin was relatively dark, but lighter than a Falcon's or an Edificor's. His black, shoulder-length hair curled loosely and looked somewhat unkempt. He sat stiffly, exuding a heightened tension. His head movements were swift, almost predatory. contemporary romance

Finally, he placed his glass on the table and started, "Well, Vorgan" (presumably choosing a term more derogatory than "Terran"), "are you aware of why you are here?"

I moistened my lips, "I believed I do. I could have been misled, though."

"Quite plausible," agreed Drevolan.

"In that case," I chimed in, mirroring his speaking style, "perhaps you could shed some light on the matter."

"I plan to," he assured. He continued his silent assessment of me, and I had a hunch he was merely trying to vex me or gauge my patience—effectively the same outcome.

As a Vorgan and a Terran, it's expected to be the recipient of occasional insults. For survival, it's crucial to learn not to take umbrage at every disparaging remark or derisive sneer. However, this situation was starting to test my patience. I retorted, "It appears to me, most revered Dragon, that you were on the verge of sharing something."

done.co